Predator and Prey
by amor-remanet
Summary: Blaise goes hunting, albeit with better motives. BlaisexHermione, with mentions of about five other pairings, het and slash.


**A/N: **Another bit of fic for an underappreciated het ship. Written for last week's ADWT prompt, "Evil is an art form."  
**Disclaimer: **All lovelies contained herein belong to JKR and I promise that they will not be hurt.

Blaise slinks mindfully out from the stacks of books, phantom-like despite all appearances to the contrary. Idly fingering the back shelf, he advances, looking up every alley and to every table for his prey. She doesn't make herself readily available, but women never do; his mother taught him that early so he'd never forget it, and he hasn't yet done so. That'd be terribly discourteous of him. Still, it almost seems preferable to be the hunted when playing the hunter takes this long. He doesn't mind playing either role, but this is just ridiculous. Even in her second home library, where she fits in best outside the Arithmancy classroom, she shouldn't be so hard to find. It isn't like every girl at this school has her signature look: sleepless eyes, hair wild as the Forbidden Forest (it'd be easier to get lost in that mane than in the trees, Blaise is quite sure), and carrying more books than she has interesting things to say.

But it's all for Theo, he reminds himself. Can't help it that his best and only real mate has utterly questionable taste in girls (and no common sense to shake a wand at), or that she's got him choking back on simple things like formulae and rune translations. He's following along somewhere, but Blaise doesn't know where, and he's perfectly fine not knowing. There's nothing quite worse than performance anxiety, and, with all Theo's expectations for the situation, knowing where he is would surely cause it. And after fourth year, when he thought that the Skeeter woman's _Witch Weekly_ article about Potter, Granger, and Krum was complete truth… he's a smart boy, but far too anxious sometimes, and all over a bookish, bitchy Mudblood bint. _Very alliterative_, Blaise scoffs and rolls his eyes. _Brilliant work, Zabini_.

Finally, she makes herself evident, and he allows himself a victorious smirk. A day of unlucky looking and he's right in the end anyway: she's been right here the whole time, just like he told Theo she would be. A perfect Saturday and, of course, she has her head buried in a book. As his smirk slips into a grin, he straightens his appearance out and saunters forward. He should have expected it out of her, not to notice. It is what she does, after all, ignore, and act, and deny her real ambition because "the right thing" is to follow around Saint Potter and the Amazing Mister Weasley, waiting for one of them to wake up and comprehend something other than Quidditch. No woman should have to suffer through that, even Granger. But all the same: she doesn't pay him more than a slight glance upwards when he sits down next to her, when he makes himself all too obvious. The corner of his mouth twitches, but only briefly.

"Afternoon, Granger," he purrs.  
"Can I help you, Zabini?" she snaps softly.  
"My highly intuitive sense of the female being tells me that you are absolutely brimming with tension."

She looks up at him, finally, and it's with a red-hot glare. So common for her – he's so very used to it that it has no effect. She's such a silly, indignant girl, but she blushes when he pushes her hair behind her ear.

"You have lovely ears," he whispers, leaning into her and fingering one of her gold hoop earrings. "Perfect curvature, attached lobes, and only sparsely decorated. So classy… a little understated, I'll admit, but you-"  
"This won't work, Zabini!" she huffs. "I'm not going to become one of your little conquests, so you can just stop. And… and don't think I don't know about what Malfoy's doing, and if you're involved with it-"  
"Granger, I don't even know what Malfoy's doing, so don't think you can fool me into thinking you do. Furthermore, he's not my friend."  
"But… but you run with his crowd."  
"I most certainly do not. His crowd is him, Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle. Theo, Daphne, and I have better things to do. And Merlin only knows what Millicent does… no one really cares, at that."  
"Oh. Well, I suppose it works out for both of us then, because-"  
"Because," he whispers, getting closer, just so she can hear him and he can tantalize her. "Because, in reality, you don't know either, and neither does Weasley, and Potter's gone entirely 'round the twist, so, in the end, we are all lost in the dark, except Potter, who is, in fact, completely mad."  
"He's not _mad_, he's just…"  
"Barmy? Completely and utterly starkers?"  
"_No_! But-"

She gasps and drops the book; his hands have been known to have that effect on the unsuspecting, from Hannah Abbott (who he knows needs old fashioned charm) to Mandy "The Minx" Brocklehurst, from Zacharias Smith to Anthony Goldstein (and the ensuing black eye from Terry Boot). Fitting, perhaps, her hand is ice beneath his own, but her cheeks let slip the fire inside. And she has to have one; she's a Gryffindor, after all, a house founded on the philosophy of fire. He leans in closer still; letting his tepid breath and her chill mingle together and converse amongst themselves, but not infringing on so-called "personal space" too much. Not just yet. Only their hands are touching, so no harm, no foul.

"The truth is, Granger," he whispers like silk. "You don't know what's going on, and not knowing terrifies you."  
"It's evil," she hisses. Cold as always. "I know that much."  
"No, no, no, you misunderstand. Evil is an art form, and Malfoy's too heavy-handed for it. He only thinks he's evil."  
"You… you're evil."  
"I am not; I'm a sensualist. You don't understand that either."

With moonbeam-light fingers, he brushes _her_ – the exposed collarbone, the dangerously arching neck, and those ears… they're just begging for it. She shudders, but most unwillingly, which makes it that much more soothing to the ears.

"You don't understand it, but it intrigues you. And, in your own, singularly you fashion, this makes you want to know more about it. All you can know. You want to know what it's like to do what you want… you haven't in so long, not really-"  
"I do… I have-"  
"Not really, no. You're so busy waiting for Weasley and cleaning up after Potter… doing Arithmancy… there's just so much that needs your attending to…"  
"Well, it has to get done, hasn't it?"  
"Many things do."

The final barrier between them is breached with the clashing of lips – fire and water from each, and she's not as inexperienced as her books would lead anyone to believe. Ever the Slytherin snake, he makes the first move of tongue past teeth, but he doesn't stay long. Can't stay long, though it's not so bad. Snogging a Mudblood is not at all as bad as he thought it would be, but, when they part for breath, he parts for good, sweeping himself to his feet. But he lets his fingers linger, just to push her hair back again.

"Think about what I said, Granger," he says softly, before retreating back to the world he knows best.

And he already knows what he'll say to Theo: "See, mate? It's not so hard."


End file.
